Never Let Me Go | YANDERE!CHUUYA NAKAHARA

16: nightclub.

After Chuuya makes love to you, he cleans you up and pulls down your mini dress to cover you. He pats your thigh lovingly as you check yourself in the mirror, applying red lipstick and only lipstick onto your lips.

"You should have called me to take you to a makeup artist." Chuuya gently chastises, to which you shrug.

"I don't know how to prepare for clubs."

"It's fine. You're pretty even without makeup," He says, and you hum.

"Pretty words. But you're not fooling anyone."

"What, do you think you're ugly?"

"I think I'm normal looking," You say. "Nothing special."

He tuts. "Sweetheart, you're gorgeous."

"Sure," You say, dismissing his words with a blink. "Should we get going?"

"I'll drive us there," He says, reaching for your hand by your side. He holds it as the both of you walk down the stairs, and Chuuya feels like a groom holding the hand of his bride down the aisle, except there was no wedding, no celebration, no white dress–only a black mini dress and alcohol in the future. He only lets go of your hand to open the car door for you, and you climb inside it as he slams it shut.

"Why did you choose a nightclub?" You ask, strapping the seatbelt over your chest.

"I thought it was a place where you've never been," He says, backing out of the side of the road. "We won't be there for long. Just long enough for you to have a taste of what clubbing is like."

In reality, the club was owned by the Port Mafia, where celebrated executives and contract killers and gamblers and plutocrats and professional dancers gathered for a drink and dance. The wine was procured from the greatest, supplest of grapes; the beer brewed in the best of breweries; the cocktails decorated with the freshest of fruits. He doesn't say all this, because he knows it will only stir up the liquid curiosity resting underneath your skin, but he does insinuate that it is a special place for special people.

"I suppose you're special, then?" You say, and Chuuya hums.

"I guess."

The drive there is done in silence, with Chuuya's hand resting on your thigh. This time, your bare thigh. The leather feels cool to the touch against your skin, like the hide of a battle-scarred animal. The night is soft, overwhelming the skies with its dark hand, crawling over the horizon with the moon peeking over the clouds. It is strange, to witness the moon, because it is the same moon that has shone on picturesque massacres, famine, ethnic cleansings, raids–but at the same time, it is the same moon that shone through cathedral tinted windows, modern aeroplanes, Caravaggio, and the art born from the Renaissance. And it makes you hush and look up and admire it. The cold, white solitude of the moon, pale and beautiful, shining brightly in the darkness of night where her brightness was amplified.

He stops the car. You look away from the window and into Chuuya's direction.

"Are we here?"

"Yep," He says. "Don't get out yet."

"What? Why?"

"I want to open the car door for you."

You huff through your nose, not in contempt, but faint amusement. "Alright, be my guest."

He slams the car door shut and walks over to your side, opening it and letting you through. You look up at the nightclub and notice two bouncers by the entrance, where there was a line of people waiting impatiently behind velvet ropes, chatting together or browsing on their phones, their faces illuminated by the light of their devices. You follow Chuuya unsurely as he walks towards them, and they recognize him–they let you through without a single word.